And We Will All the Pleasures Prove
by pale-jonquil
Summary: The Victorian Era is an age of contradictions. Everyone has their secrets - Arthur just doesn't realize he and Marie are hiding the same things. Or: "The Victorians Were Kinky As Hell, Y'all."


De-anon from the kink meme. Original request: _Victorian style discipline, which means impact play, especially caning or birching, to their mutual enjoyment. Consensual only, please. Other kinks and fetishes are welcome, as long as they are safe, sane and consensual; however, I do not care for watersports or scat. Bonues: figging (especially with some of the interesting side effects this can have on a female sub) because the Victorians invented it, and roleplaying (like Headmaster and naughty schoolgirl or master of the house and misbehaving housemaid, etc., all those fun staples of Victorian porn)._

This was the first really super kinky thing I ever wrote for EngBel. Please let me know if I did something wrong or unsafe. I'm thinking this takes place sometime in the late 1880s, as there's a certain establishment mentioned that didn't open until 1889. As always, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**And We Will All the Pleasures Prove**

.

"He's a queer sort of fellow, that Arthur Kirkland, he is."

Mrs. Jameson, of No. 14 Grosvenor Square, peers through the curtains and watches the carriage pull up to her neighbor's door.

"Do you not think so?" she asks her husband over her shoulder. "To spend so much of his time at home, alone, and never receive any visitors. None except for that Belgian woman, apparently."

She watches as her neighbor offers the Belgian woman his hand and helps her down from the carriage.

"Neither of them married and not a chaperone in sight," she tuts, shaking her head. "It will cause _quite_ the scandal, I am sure, and bring ruin upon them both."

"Mary," her husband sighs, in a manner suggesting this is not the first time his wife has taken to spying on their neighbor, "do come away from the window."

However queer his wife may think him, Mr. Jameson has a high regard for their neighbor, as they served in Her Majesty's light dragoons together in India. Kirkland was a crack shot who, in addition to saving his life on two separate occasions, taught him all the very best (that is to say, the _foulest)_ curse words the English language has to offer. He said he learned them whilst in the navy, though how a young man such as himself came to earn such distinguished careers in two branches of the military during so short a span of time is anyone's guess.

Come to think of it, Kirkland always _did_ speak rather wistfully of his days at sea, referring to them as _when I was young._ And what a funny sort of smile he always wore when they teased him about this and inquired as to how long he'd been wearing long trousers.

Ah, well. Rule Britannia, and all that. Still a crack shot.

"Leave the poor man alone, Mary," he tells his wife. "If he truly is the shut-in you believe him to be, pray, don't begrudge him his one visitor. That woman happens to be an old friend of his — in fact, he talked of nothing and no one else whilst we were in India. They've known each other since childhood, he said, so surely their relationship is not as…_indelicate_ as you believe it to be."

He turns the page of his newspaper and mutters: "Or _wish _it to be."

"Hmm, a few hat boxes — nothing unusual in that," his wife murmurs, still at the window. "But — oh, what's this, then? A trunk? How long is she planning to stay? How very interesting…"

Her husband rolls his eyes. He really doesn't care — not in the _slightest_ — about Kirkland's dalliances. What the man does behind his own doors is his own business.

Mr. Jameson is suddenly reminded of the book he brought home from India, a book with all manner of romantic advice and…_amorous_ illustrations, and shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He certainly wouldn't want anyone to guess what goes on behind his and Mary's doors, _that's_ for damn sure.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland, of No. 20 Grosvenor Square, has gained a reputation for being somewhat of a recluse because he's terrified his thoughts will give him away in polite, genteel company.

They began sometime during the Victorian Era, these thoughts.

They began, one cold night, as he and Marie returned to his house after a night at the opera, as he watched her carelessly throw her cloak and gloves across one of his chairs.

"Why do you always insist we go to the opera?" she groaned. "You know I can't stand it. I only go because you like it."

He picked up her cloak and hung it next to his.

"Because, love," he said, smiling indulgently at her, "it's what a gentleman and his lady _do."_

"Who says I'm your lady, mmm?" she asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

_I don't want you to be my lady,_ Arthur suddenly thought, picking up one of her silk gloves and rubbing it almost absently against his cheek — but, strangely, he had no idea what he _did_ want her to be, if not a lady. He'd never had a thought about her quite like that before, and it confused him.

* * *

Arthur was in the middle before he even realized he'd begun to fall in love with her.

He wants to give her flowers every single day, wants to copy down love poems in his own scratchy, uneven hand and leave them on her pillow. He wants to kiss her eyelids and the inside of her wrists, wants to walk arm-in-arm with her down the street, wants to carry her to bed after she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder.

Which is all well and good. But he also wants to unravel her hair ribbons, wants to feel the soft coolness of the silk and the warm decadence of the velvet as he tangles them around his fingers. He wants her to drag them across his skin, but it's not only her ribbons his skin is crying out for — he wants her to brush her hair across his chest, wants her to blow on his stomach, wants her to slide her nails down his arms and back.

And it's not enough that he must touch himself at night (and morning and afternoon, if he's being honest) and think about his dick sliding in and out of her, think about how pink her nipples must be against the milky whiteness of her breast. Sometimes he desires to be rough with her. He thinks, sometimes, that he wants to make her cry — _she,_ the one person he has never, in all his life, wished to bring harm to.

_I could make you enjoy it,_ he thinks, too guilty to fall asleep after he comes.

He squirms when he's in polite company, thankful no one can know his thoughts. He had _thought_ he was genuinely in love with her, but now he obsesses over how much of it's love and how much of it's only that he wants an accomplice in his sick perversions.

* * *

They've formed a habit of taking tea together at least once a week. It's always the day of the week Arthur looks forward to the most, though one wouldn't know it today.

The latest session of Parliament went so badly, apparently, that now Arthur rants and raves about finishing what Guy Fawkes set out to do.

"Everything will work out," Marie says, walking to the tea tray beside his chair. "It always does."

She fixes him another cup of tea — his third in half an hour — just the way he likes it, and hands it to him.

"Drink," she commands, and he dutifully takes the cup.

"Allendale, that_ bastard,"_ Arthur grumbles menacingly into his cup. "And that look on his smug, ugly face. I _hate_ that look, and I _hate_ him."

She runs her fingers through his hair to placate him, an old trick from when they were young. (She's found it works like a charm on Lovino as well.)

"You don't hate him, dear."

Arthur sets his cup down on the table before him with a clatter. "You will allow I am not fond of him, then."

"No," she sighs, pulling her hand back and setting about preparing herself another cup of tea. "But don't let his actions dictate your mood. That's giving him too much control over you, don't you think?"

Arthur picks up his cane, resting against the other side of his chair, and twists it in his hands, scowling.

"And he made such a fine _show_ of it, too, walking _up_ one side of the aisle, and then _down_ the other," he says, waving his cane in either direction, "and then _back_ again."

He finishes with another grand flourish of his cane. "And all of it just to _spite_ me."

"Arthur — dear — "

"And every single blighter who raised his hand to agree with him deserves to have his head — "

Again, his cane cuts through the air.

" — knocked — "

_Thwack._

" — clean — "

_Thwack._

" — off."

The tea set rattles as his cane accidentally lands against the back of Marie's dress.

She gasps. Poor Arthur can only gape up at her, too horrified and embarrassed by the awkwardness of the situation _(I could make you enjoy it)_ to do anything but stupidly continue to hold his cane against her.

Neither is sure if time has actually frozen or if it's just mocking them by slowing down.

But then…she turns her head to look at him, her expression unreadable. Her eyes never leaving his, she grabs the edge of the cane and holds it against her body,_ leans her ass against it._

He gives her a gentle, experimental tap, his hands acting completely of their own accord. A thrill runs up his spine as he watches her raise her eyebrows almost expectantly, and Arthur gets the distinct feeling a secret is passing between them.

But then the haze of the dream lifts, time picks back up, and she's playfully batting the cane away from her person. She takes her seat across from him, and raising her cup to her lips, boldly meets his eyes over the rim. They stare at each other for a few moments before Arthur jumps out of his chair, mumbling something about asking Cook for more biscuits as he exits the room.

He shuts the door behind him and leans against it, takes one, two three deep breaths. So much has passed between them without even a single word being spoken, and Arthur wonders if he's not half as doomed as he originally thought. He knows what he wants, but now he desperately wonders what it is _she_ wants.

* * *

What does Marie want?

She has always been captivated by Arthur's hands. He's always so exquisitely gentle and attentive to her when they dance together or when he ties her bonnet under her chin for her _("Velvet?" he asks), _but she knows there's a strength in those hands. She thinks she'd like, more than anything, to know what those hands are _really_ capable of.

She feels guilty, sometimes, for having these thoughts. She's been under the control of one man or another for most of her life, and would not give up her independence for anything.

But Arthur — her dear, stubborn, impossible Arthur — has always treated her with the utmost respect. He has never demanded, never taken, never forced anything from her.

And that's precisely why, she eventually realized, he _deserves_ to.

* * *

"I say," he fusses in his parlor one night, "dresses are so dreadfully _noisy_ nowadays."

She smiles and walks over to him.

"That — _that there._ That is precisely what I am referring to. That odious rustling — who decided that?"

"Not you?"

"Not I!"

She slides onto his lap, and he allows it. Ever since the incident with the cane, he's slowly been tearing down the carefully constructed wall of propriety society expects him to keep between them.

"Madam, your noisy skirts are upon my person."

Still smiling, she shrugs. "So they are."

"This is all wildly inappropriate."

"Don't worry," she says, unfastening his cravat, "the inappropriateness will only last a little longer."

She removes the cloth from his neck, and he sighs appreciatively, closing his eyes. She runs her fingers through his hair, brushes it away from his face, and smiles softly as the stress of the day disappears from his expression. She knows being an empire isn't always easy for him, as much as he boasts and brags. It makes her miserable to think that one day he might not have any time for her.

She moves to get out of his lap, but his eyes fly open and he tightly grabs her wrists.

"Unhand me, sir," she says, a sad look in her eyes.

"What if — what if I said I didn't want to." He licks his lips as he looks at her. "What if I said…that I never wanted to let you go?"

"What if I said you were hurting me?"

His fingers immediately lift from her wrists.

(He doesn't know it, but he's passed a certain kind of test.)

"Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you." He lowers his eyes. "Marie — Marie, surely you know I would _never_ wish to harm you, in any way?"

She holds her wrists out to him, and her eyes glitter in the firelight as she whispers: "What if I said I wanted you to hurt me?"

He turns his head away and stares at her out of the corner of his eyes, unsure of her meaning.

"Confound it, woman, stop being such a — such a damned _minx."_

"Go on," she says, holding her wrists out to him.

Slowly, he curls his fingers around her wrists and squeezes.

"Like that?" he whispers.

"Harder, if you like."

"I'm going to leave a mark."

"It would be alright, if it were you."

"You would let me do that to your skin?" he breathes, his eyes darting all across her face. "Your lovely, lovely skin…"

She glances down at their hands before shyly lifting her eyes.

"Let go?" she asks.

He immediately does so.

"Very good," she whispers, grinning.

She wraps her arms around his neck and whispers in his ear: "You could do anything you wanted to me, Arthur, and I wouldn't mind. I would enjoy it, because…"

Arthur finds he almost cannot breathe.

"Because?"

She kisses his cheek and lets her lips linger against his skin. "Because I love you, you ridiculous man."

His heart melts in his chest at those words — words he's only ever dreamed of, words he's only ever read in books, imaging her as the heroine — and brings his arms lightly around her, not wanting to break the spell.

"I'm supposed to declare my undying love for you first," he says, closing his eyes and burying his face in her hair. "Only then are you to fall into my arms, swooning or weeping or whatever it is ladies are expected to do these days."

She leans back and giggles, rests her forehead against his.

"Oh, Arthur," she sighs, happily. "There's always all these silly rules, and then I always have to remind you — it's just _us._ You can be yourself with me."

She lightly places her lips upon his, traps him in this still, delicate moment with her. Nothing exists save for them, the man and the woman sighing against each other in a parlor just like any other in Grosvenor Square. Even though it's everything they've ever dreamed of (and, they're each already discovering, so, _so_ much more), they're still waiting for the other's permission to start this new chapter of their relationship.

Arthur moves his lips first, and brings a trembling hand to hold the back of her head. The caution dissipates, and their lips melt against each other, achingly slow in their exploration.

He can feel her smiling into the kiss, and his heart stumbles and tumbles in his chest. There have been many moments he felt he was born for — Agincourt, the Armada, Waterloo — but none of them compare to this moment, the moment where the woman he loves has told him she loves him and is kissing him to prove it.

Breathlessly, he pulls away.

"You — you would let me do that to you?"

"Do what?" she asks, dazed, staring at his lips.

"I mean…" He clears his throat and looks away. "Be…_rough,_ and do certain things which would not always be considered…normal."

She cups his face in her hands and smiles softly.

"Oh, what's _normal,_ anyway?" she casually asks. "I think we should make our own definition of normal, dear. Remember, it's just you and me."

She kisses him, short and sweet, their noses bumping. She giggles at his closed eyes and the expectant expression on his face when she pulls away, as though he were hoping for a longer kiss.

_Just you wait,_ she thinks. _Now that I've kissed you, I'm never going to stop._

"But yes," she says, and coquettishly trails a finger across the lapel of his jacket. "I would like, very, _very_ much, to do rough things or things that might not be considered normal, for lack of a better term." She kisses his nose. "Do you remember the day you accidentally swatted my bottom with your cane?"

He nods.

"_Mm-hmm,"_ she agrees, lifting her noisy skirts and shifting so she's straddling him. "But just as long as we do sweet, gentle things, too. Because I love you _so_ much, dear — I always have — and there are plenty of ways of showing it, don't you think?"

Something clicks in Arthur's brain just then. The thought occurs to him, dully, that his virtuous queen has _nine children,_ for fuck's sake. This Victorian Era has spiraled into an age of contradictions — propriety and prostitution, gentility and gambling, decorum and drinking.

And she's absolutely right, his whip-smart, darling, beautiful girl — they can have _both._ He can copy down poems for her _and_ be rough with her. He can bring her flowers _and_ dominate her completely. It's just the two of them, and they can have as many secrets between them as they like.

He grabs her wrists, surprising her, and roughly brings them behind her back. She struggles a little — not because she wants out of his grasp, but because she's testing him again. If she tells him to hold her tightly, how tightly is he willing to hold her?

As tightly as she wants, apparently, for his grip becomes tight enough that she cannot test him any longer. He leans back in the chair, bringing her with him, and trapped in his arms as she is, she can do nothing but lie against his chest.

Here she is, his strong, brave girl, made completely captive by his own hands, and he wants so desperately to explore this new dynamic between them that, with a bit of shame _(it's just us,_ he desperately reminds himself, _it's alright because it's just the two of us)_ realizes he's growing hard.

"Is this alright?" he asks, his voice husky from desire and his lips brushing against hers.

She nods. "I'll tell you when it's not. But until then — "

That's all the permission he needs. He covers her mouth with his and lays complete, animalistic claim upon her. She doesn't struggle, only opens her mouth eagerly. Their tongues probe each other's mouths, running across teeth and lips and, once, with a devilish grin on her face, she pulls away and licks the corner of his mouth.

She moans lightly into his mouth, enjoying every second of their feverish kissing. She loves the feel of him against her, his broad chest supporting her and his strong arms locked around her, her body rising and falling with every breath he takes. She has no way of escaping him, no way to resist — but it's exactly what she wants.

"You're hard," she murmurs.

"_Your fault,"_ he pants.

She chuckles, and he fleetingly wonders if she knows how seductive she is without even trying.

"You should do something about that, sir."

"What would you suggest, madam?"

She nudges his chin with her cheek and tips his head back.

"Anything you want, my dear, _dear_ Arthur," she murmurs against his skin before licking up and down his neck.

He lolls his head against the back of the chair and his eyelids flutter.

"Oh, Marie," he sighs, "Marie, Marie…"

His grip on her wrists relaxes, and she wants to bring this to his attention, but quickly realizes that without him holding her so tightly she can grind her hips against him, and decides to do that instead.

"Oh, _God,"_ he whispers, and picks his head up to look her in the eye. "Do that again."

She does so, and grins at him. "Like that?" she whispers back.

"Yes..."

"Again?" she asks, doing so.

"_Yes…"_

She returns to his neck, kissing and licking, and slowly continues grinding against him. He lets go of her hands completely and holds her hips. It makes him harder to think that he can guide her as she rubs against his dick, even if it isn't true at all. He doesn't know which one of them is in control, which one of them is leading — and he _doesn't care._

Her arms fly around his neck, one hand anchoring herself, the fingers of the other weaving into his hair.

"I love you," she whispers, and trails her tongue up to his jaw.

He inhales the flowery scent of her hair, tries to memorize it in case this isn't real, in case it's all a dream and she'll be gone by the stroke of midnight.

"I love you more," he whispers back. "You have no idea, Marie, none at all…"

"Oh, I think I do," she says, huffing out a short laugh. She grinds against him one final time before leaning all of her weight against the hardness hidden under his trousers.

Arthur blushes furiously, but she cradles his face in her hands.

"Do something, dear — do anything you want to me, anything at all."

Arthur stares at her face for a few moments, full of wonder at her, before his eyes light up.

"Lie on the floor."

She blinks. "What?"

"On the floor with you," he orders, gently pushing her off him. _"Now."_

And just when he thinks that she's going to take it all back — tell him she's appalled by his behavior, that he's sick and twisted — she rolls off him, takes a few steps, and then collapses to the ground.

"I don't wish to ruin your dress — lovely, by the way, green looks quite becoming on you — or collapse your bustle," he says as he discards his jacket and his waistcoat, "but I've an idea."

"Oh?" she asks, smiling as she watches him rummage around the room for something.

He finds what he was looking for — his cane — and hurriedly walks back to her. Kneeling beside her, he cups her cheek with his hand.

"You must promise me you shall say something if I ever truly hurt you, or if I ever do something you are uncomfortable with."

She nods. "I promise."

"I'm serious, darling."

"Oh, dear, I know you are." She lays her hand over his. "But don't worry — we'll be fine."

She's trembling with excitement, but the worried look on Arthur's face sobers her.

"Dear," she says, rising up on her elbows, "if you're unsure, we don't have to do anything, rough or gentle or otherwise. We don't even have to do anything tonight." She giggles, and nudges his knee with her leg. "Honestly, if you just wanted to kiss me for the rest of the night, I'd be more than happy with that."

"No, I want to, it's only — " He rearranges his legs and sits on the floor beside her. "I'm _trusting_ you, darling."

She furrows her eyebrows. "Arthur…"

"No one knows me half so well as you do, but…this is different."

"I know it is." She sits up fully and brushes the hair out of his eyes. "I'm a little nervous and scared, because I'm trusting you, too, Arthur Kirkland — but I'm mostly excited! I love you and I can't wait to do everything with you — everything I've only dreamed about, but now it's _real,_ and it's — it's — "

He smirks at her. "You've dreamed about this?"

Now it's her turn to blush.

Getting back on his knees, he gently pushes her back down to the floor. He grabs his cane and hooks the edge of it under her skirts.

"Tell me what you've dreamed about."

"Oh, well — I — "

"Tell me," he soothes as his cane inches upwards, tracing her leg.

She covers her face with her hands.

"I've dreamed about you doing things to me," she says, her voice muffled.

"What sort of things, my love?" And there goes his cane, over one of her knees.

"Touching me."

"Where?" The head of his cane lightly rolls over her knickers, and stills right over her slit.

"All over. You're very good with your hands in my dreams, and you kiss me all over, too, and it's wonderful, because — because you have an amazing mouth."

She can hear him chuckling, but continues: "Once I dreamed you were pulling my hair, and I liked it in the dream, so…maybe we can try that one day."

"Depend upon it, madam," he says, gently removing her hands from her face and placing a kiss upon each of her eyelids, "we are going to try _everything."_

She smiles. "I'll never forgive you if we don't."

He positions himself over her then, pinning her body beneath his, and Marie sighs as he kisses her again. The feel of his lips against hers makes her stomach flip, and her entire body goes limp with pleasure as his tongue maps the inside of her mouth.

She's moaning again, and Arthur can't imagine, as he clasps her hands and holds them above her head, ever hearing enough of that sound. He wonders how many other sounds she has to discover, and can't wait to draw every single one of them out of her.

"Don't move," he whispers, and reaches down to retrieve his cane from under her skirts. He arranges her hands, setting them palm-side up, and securely holds his cane across her wrists.

She grins up at him. "Mr. _Kirk_land!"

"I said everything, did I not?" He kisses her cheek. "This is as good a start as any, I imagine."

Rearranging his body to find a more comfortable position, he ends up leaning half on his elbow, half on his forearm. He reaches down to unfasten his trousers, and sighs in relief as he tugs them down and frees his dick from the constricting material. He doesn't even have to think twice about moving her skirts aside and rutting against her leg.

"Oh, God," he groans, burying his face in her neck, _"yes…"_

She kisses the shell of his ear, watches as he jerks against her, and can feel the heat rushing between her legs. It's almost like a private moment she's not meant to see, she thinks, and it thrills her, makes her hips twitch in anticipation.

And Arthur knows, amidst the haze of lust that's settled over his brain, that she's said he can do whatever he wants with her, but the gentleman inside of him would never allow a lady to go without due attention.

He stills his hips and brings his head up, gazing at her beautiful, flushed face. If she's going to get any sort of release, it's going to be entirely due to him — she's completely dependent on him, and true, he could take advantage of that fact…

Or he could make it worth her while.

He snakes his hand beneath her skirts and tugs her panties down past her stockings and around her ankles. Bringing his hand back up, he sucks on his middle finger, gets it good and wet, and finds his way back to her slit. Slowly, gently, he inserts his finger inside her, and there's little resistance since she's already so wet.

She throws her head back and loudly gasps, her eyes wide. She gasps again when he crooks his finger and slides it in and out of her.

"_Arthur,"_ she gasps, closing her eyes, "Arthur, Arthur…"

He adds another finger, and then rests his thumb over her clit. Softly, he rubs circles over it.

"_God,_ yes," she pants, her hips bucking against his hand, "yes, yes, _just like that."_

Arthur watches, entranced, as she thrashes her head back and forth, as she moans and calls out his name over and over. She's never been more his, and she's never been more beautiful to him.

He starts humping her leg again, furiously rubbing his cock against her, almost drowning in the pleasure. There's a strange satisfied-yet-still-hungry feeling coiling in his belly as Marie's jerking against his hand becomes more and more frenzied. He has an aching need to come, but he's determined to have her orgasm first, and rubs his thumb faster over her clit.

"Arthur!" she suddenly cries out. "Arthur — look at me."

He opens his eyes and watches as her face contorts into an almost painful expression, but then he realizes: She's not jerking against his hand anymore, she's _shuddering,_ and she's coming. Her mouth opens wide, but no sound comes out save for a strangled gasp, followed by harsh exhales.

"Yes," she pants, lifting her head off the floor, "yes, yes, _yes,_ Arthur, _Arthur…"_

He rests his forehead against hers and watches as she rides out her orgasm, speechless at the sight. He wants to urge her on, tell her to _come for me, come hard,_ tell her to _say my name again _and _scream if you want to,_ but can't, can only watch and catch her eye during the brief moments she opens them.

She flops against the floor when she's finished, completely spent. She watches as he pulls his fingers out of her and licks them clean, and the sight of it makes her shiver.

It's not long before he feels on the edge of orgasm as well, and with a few final thrusts, comes quick and hard against her leg.

"Shit," he cries, his voice harsh, _"shit,_ oh, _fuck me…"_

The expression on his face as he comes is almost like one of surprise, and as he drops his head, Marie kisses his cheek.

"Yes," she whimpers, coos, "come for me, dear."

"Marie — I love — _fuck — "_

After his initial waves of pleasure pass, he collapses on top of her and tries to regain his breath. He knocks his cane away from her wrists, panting into her neck.

"Oh, God," he groans, pausing to swallow, "oh, God…"

She wraps her freed arms around him and holds him close, strokes his hair.

"Shh," she breathlessly tells him. "I know."

They lay together like that for some time, simply enjoying the lull of their hearts beating against each other. Eventually, he lifts his head to look at her. She smiles lazily at him and chuckles lightly. It's the most languid, contented noise he's ever heard, and it makes his heart throb in his chest.

"I — I think I just ruined a good pair of trousers," he says, distractedly. "And your petticoat."

"I doubt it," she says, weaving her fingers into his mussed hair.

He rubs against her touch, not unlike a cat, and she smiles at the sight of it.

Sluggishly, he pulls himself away from her and rearranges his trousers. Grabbing her hands, he pulls her up to sit with him and examines her wrists, bending to kiss first one, then the other.

"My love?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you think you might one day grow weary of hearing me say I love you?"

She closes her eyes as she smiles and shakes her head. "Never."

Draping her hands around his neck, he gathers her to him in a lose embrace.

"I love you."

"I know."

"And — I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" she asks, pulling away and looking at him.

"I wanted — well, I had _imagined,_ I should say — that if I was ever lucky enough to do this with you, that we'd do it in my bed, or yours. And I swore I'd do my damnedest to make our first time special. Well, if I was allowed to have more than one time with you, that is."

He doesn't meet her eye, so he misses the soft smile she gives him.

"But a bed of some sort, regardless," he continues. "Not on the floor, of all places." He looks around them and wrinkles his nose. "How undignified."

She throws her back and laughs then, and the corners of Arthur's mouth quirk up as well. Her laughter, more so than any words ever could, has always had a way of reassuring him.

_Undignified to some, perhaps, _he mentally amends,_ but perfect for just the two of us._

* * *

Mr. John Milsom (of Milsom & Milsom's) has seven children at home to feed and clothe, so he's ever so chuffed Lord Kirkland stoops so low as to patronize his humble little shop.

Lord Kirkland is as rich as…well, as rich as a lord, to borrow a turn of phrase. He could very easily afford the best wares from any corner of the empire, but when he's in town he always makes sure to do business with Milsom & Milsom's in Cheapside.

As rich as he is and as easily as he could afford to cast off his lordly responsibilities, he's a dedicated Lord Temporal, they say — and such a young one, at that, for as many years as he says he's faithfully served Her Majesty. Curious how he speaks so fondly of certain events during the queen's reign when he could not have possibly been there to actually witness some of them himself — but then, perhaps the poor bloke is a bit touched in the head, as others have said.

"More ribbons, today, sir?" Mr. Milsom good-naturedly asks his young, eccentric lord one fine afternoon. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but if I hadn't seen you walkin' 'round town with that pretty lass o' yers, I'd think you was always buyin' these ribbons for yerself."

His young lord's face flushes.

"Aw, I meant nothin' by it, sir," Milsom says, smiling broadly, "you should know that by now. 'Tis what I offer all my best customers — a bit o' goods, and a bit o' humor, like."

"Yes," his young lord mutters, eyeing him up and down, "quite."

Milsom picks up the other object on the counter.

"But I thought you already had such a fine, heavy cane, sir — what use does a noble such as yerself have for such a plain one as this, made out o' rattan 'n all?"

"Have a care, Milsom," his young lord says irritably, depositing a fistful of banknotes on the counter.

_Let the man have his secrets,_ Mr. John Milsom thinks later as he counts his money. Every man should have an air of mystery about him when he's young — even the ones who are a might bit touched in the head.

* * *

One of the first things Arthur confessed to Marie was a desire to feel her hair ribbons against his skin.

She immediately untied the ribbon in her hair and playfully covered his eyes with it.

When she pulled it away and smiled up at him, he had a serious expression on his face.

"Yes," he breathed, _"exactly."_

* * *

_You stay just like that,_ she said.

_No peaking!_ she said.

_I'll be right back,_ she said.

Arthur doesn't know how long he's been waiting for her to return. He hasn't moved an inch or opened his eyes once since she stripped him, arranged him just how she wanted, and then left.

Twitching with anticipation as he rests against the headboard of her bed, he hasn't felt this giddy and excited about anything in ages. She's such a _clever_ girl, and always knows just how long he needs to wait for something — long enough to think he can't live without it, but not so long that he loses interest or feels disappointed.

_(God,_ how he loves her.)

He hears the door open, and his heart races.

"Marie?"

"Hello!" she chirps.

He can hear her shoes clicking against the floor as she walks to the bed.

"Remember what I said, dear? About no peaking?"

"But of course."

"I can count on you to be a gentleman and keep your word, can't I?"

"Well, I always keep my word when it comes to you, but as for being a gentleman…" He tilts his head to the side and grins up at where he thinks she is. "You robbed me of my clothes and threw me on your bed, madam. I can't make any promises on that account."

She laughs, loud and merry, and the sound of it makes him laugh, too. He thinks of all the cheap novels he's read about women repulsed by even the vaguest allusion to sex, all the stories he's heard at the clubs about frigid wives, and thanks his lucky stars, not for the first time, that Marie is as playful and vivacious inside of the bedroom as she is out of it.

"That's not a bad answer at all," she says, setting something on the ground.

The bed dips lightly as she sits on it. She lays a hand on his shoulder — she must be wearing her silk opera gloves, he thinks — and kisses his cheek.

"You know," she says, fiddling with something, "as much as I appreciate your gentlemanly ways, I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to be with you when you were a dashing pirate."

"_Privateer._ And I'm sure it would have been absolutely wretched. Sand _everywhere."_

She giggles, and the bed dips again as she crawls over to him.

"Hold still," she whispers into his ear.

She lays something across his eyes then, and he realizes it's a silk ribbon. She wraps it around his head a few times to completely cover his eyes before she ties it off.

"Not too tight?"

"No, it's perfect."

"Marvelous," she purrs, laying a few hot, open-mouthed kisses on his neck. "But we're not done yet."

She takes his arm and begins wrapping the ribbon around it. Starting at his bicep, she wraps it over and under, criss-crosses it all the way down and finishes at his wrist. Lifting his arm, she secures the ends of the ribbon to the corner of her headboard.

"Is that alright, dear? Your arm won't get sore or fall asleep?"

"No."

"The ribbon's not too tight?"

"No, my love, it's perfect."

She crawls back to the edge of the bed, grabs another spool of ribbon, and he can hear it fluttering off the spool as she prepares his other arm.

"You already said that," she gently chides him, laughing quietly.

"That's because it _is_ perfect," he says, and though he can't see her, he stretches over to give her a kiss, kiss her anywhere just to show his appreciation — and his lips meet her hair, on the side of her head.

"This is all so bloody perfect," he whispers. _"You're_ perfect."

She presses a deceptively chaste kiss to his mouth, smiling against his lips.

She continues to work on his other arm, and when she's finished, he can feel her pull away.

"_There,"_ she says, triumphant. "Yes, I think this shall do nicely."

She kisses his chest, right above his heart.

"Let's play a game, Mr. Kirkland," she offers.

"Yes, let's," he agrees, breathless.

"But first…"

She throws one of her legs over him, straddling him.

"Would you mind if I kiss you, sir?"

"As if I could ever deny you anything, madam."

She lightly sucks on his bottom lip before kissing him properly. Her lips are warm and soft against his, and he exhales sharply through his nose.

All these sensations against his skin are about to drive him mad — wonderfully, blissfully mad. The soft ribbons caressing his skin remind him of when he was a child, of the time when a butterfly landed on his hand and the feel of its wings against his skin made his brain feel fuzzy. He's been searching all his life to find that feeling again, and now he finally has. And his heart turns violently in his chest when he thinks about that, because it's all thanks to _her._

There is no sensation, of course, quite like Marie kissing him, her tongue running across his, drawing out what she wants from him at her own pace. She doesn't ride him very often — some sort of dissatisfaction with her hips, she says, though he's never seen anything wrong with them — but he wishes she would. He _loves_ the feel of her against him like this, as though she's going to do whatever she likes with him, as though he's nothing but a toy for her own enjoyment.

And there's the thin silk against his thigh, and —

"Darling, what are you wearing?"

"I'm not wearing a dress," she says, sounding mightily pleased with herself.

"Please tell me," he whispers.

"Well," she whispers back, her fingers caressing his neck, "there's my corset…"

Arthur makes an intelligible noise as she daintily passes her fingers across his collarbone and down his chest.

"And my opera gloves — the only pair I own, I'll have you know, because I don't go unless you make me."

She scoots away and traces shapes down his stomach, draws circles over his thighs.

"My silk stockings, too, and my garters. I had my shoes on earlier, but I slipped them off."

He can feel her breath against his half-hard cock.

"Darling — "

"I wanted to complete the outfit, but the shoes were a bit silly, I'll admit."

And then she wraps her lips around his cock, takes as much of him into her mouth as she can, and Arthur's head falls back against the headboard.

"Fuck," he blissfully breathes, "oh, _fuck, _that feels good…"

She begins slowly swirling her tongue — her wonderful, delightful tongue, as smooth as velvet — around his cock. Gently, she drags her lips up and down the length of him, fucking him with her mouth. Up and down and up and down and _mother of fuck,_ what did he ever do to deserve such attention from such a fine woman?

Every flick of her tongue makes his toes curl, especially so as he cannot see what she's doing. All the sensations are so much more intense now, settling even deeper inside the pit of his belly and making his heart yearn for her all over again.

(He wonders, fleetingly, if the use of his eyes has been preventing him from fully appreciating the use of his other senses up until now. He'll never forgive himself if he's been taking any part of her or their lovemaking for granted, but he resolves to make it up to her tenfold if he has.)

"Oh!" she suddenly cries, dragging her lips away, "and I'm wearing my panties, too!"

He jerks his hips a little, immediately missing the feel of her lips around him. It's early, but he already wants to beg her to continue.

"Damn it — don't stop — "

"But I want to show you something."

"I can't _see,_ you — you fucking _minx."_

"Careful, dear — are you using that word as an adjective or a verb?"

But before he can form a semi-coherent answer, she's back in his lap.

"Guess what?" she whispers against his ear, and her breath against his skin makes him tremble.

"What."

"Have you heard of the Moulin Rouge nightclub?"

"The windmill? The one in Paris?"

"Yes."

"If it's in Paris, then _no,_ I haven't heard of it."

"Oh, _Arthur,_ yes, you have," she laughs, pursing her lips and blowing lightly against his neck. "The ladies there have a dance where they hold up their skirts and kick up their legs."

"I don't care a fig what the French ladies do. I only care what the Belgian one in my lap is doing." He jerks his hips up. "Or _isn't_ doing, as it were."

"The rumor is they cut a long slit in their panties so that when they lift their legs, the men _really_ get a show."

"I — " Arthur tilts his head to the side. "Wait, they do _what,_ exactly?"

And before he knows what's happening, she's grabbing his cock and holding it steady as she slips on top of it. He gasps as the warm wetness of her settles perfectly around him, the heat of her washing over him as she wiggles and gets comfortable.

"_Christ,"_ he moans, and buries his nose in her hair as she slumps against him. "Every time this happens, every time I'm inside of you, it feels brilliant."

"Yes," she sighs, holding him as tightly as she can. "I love the feel of you inside me. God, you make me feel so _full,_ and — and so _loved,_ and — "

She pulls away and holds his face in her hands as she kisses him.

"I love you so, _so_ much," she whispers.

"You know I love you," he whispers back.

He rolls his hips against her.

"Darling," he pleads, his voice strangled, _"please."_

"Soon, I promise."

"But — "

"Hush," she says, kissing him lightly, just once. "Trust me."

She leans over then, reaches across the bed for something, and the feel of her moving against his cock (but not anything close to what he really wants, the minx) makes him grunt in frustration.

"I was thinking," she begins as she rights herself.

Arthur takes a deep breath. "About what?"

"We need some kind of signal — like a password, or a code word."

"Whatever for?" he asks, and thrusts his hips up and into her a little. It isn't nearly as much movement as he needs, but it's better than nothing.

"Stop moving," she tells him, her tone even.

"Fuck, Marie, I can't help it!" he nearly shouts, thrusting again. "Do you have any idea how bloody good you feel?"

And then, suddenly, something sharply smacks against his thigh. It wasn't an accident — it was a deliberate, harsh strike. He's so startled he doesn't even feel the sting of it at first.

"_Stop moving,"_ Marie repeats, but this time it sounds like an order.

"What the fuck was _that _for?!" he screeches.

"Because you wouldn't stop moving when I told you to!" she screeches back. "And I have _plans_ for you, Arthur Kirkland — plans that don't involve you moving inside me just yet!"

He starts to protest, but she lays a finger across his lips.

"Just listen to me, okay? This is why we need a special word. What if I do something that you don't like? And you try to tell me, but I don't hear you or I don't understand? Or what if you're doing something I don't like, but I'm too afraid to tell you?"

"Why should you be afraid to tell me — "

"The point is," she hurries on, "having a word for that wouldn't be a bad thing, would it?"

Arthur considers this for a moment. "No, I suppose not."

"Then let's pick something. Something we would never use in the bedroom otherwise."

Arthur thinks, trying to scrounge up vocabulary from every poem and novel he's ever read.

"We could try — "

"Make it something funny."

"Funny?" And then Arthur blurts out the first word that comes to his mind: "Strawberry."

She laughs. _"Strawberry?"_

"Nothing wrong with strawberry," Arthur mutters, turning his face away from her.

"No, dear, there's not," she says, kissing his cheek and hugging him, "and it _did_ make me laugh. It's perfect. Strawberry it is, then."

She pulls away. "And now, it's time to try out our new word."

The same strike hits his thigh, and the same sting follows after.

The room remains silent.

She swats at him again, and something flickers across his face, but still, he says nothing.

Slowly, she starts riding him.

"It's not that I didn't like it," he grunts out, lightly biting her shoulder. "I was merely surprised, that's all. What is that thing, anyway?"

"It's a riding crop, of course."

"Oh, yes, _of course._ Fucking hell, woman."

And just when he thinks his dick is finally going to get the sweet attention from her it's been craving, she stills.

"What — "

"_Stop moving."_

He doesn't even breathe.

"Very good," she purrs, licking his bottom lip before running her tongue down his neck. He squirms a little beneath her, but she lets it slide — she's not _completely_ heartless.

"I thought," she whispers, tracing figures on his chest with her finger, "that since you like the feel of ribbons so much, that you might like the way other things felt against your skin."

She leans over the bed again, fiddles with some things in a bag, it sounds like, and then straightens.

"Would it be alright, dear, if I touched you with different things — nothing that would hurt, of course, only things that would feel good — and then you had to guess what they were?"

He swallows thickly, and nods.

"If you get it right, then I'll ride you some more. But if you get it wrong — "

She taps the riding crop lightly against his thigh.

"I accept this challenge, madam," he says with a grin.

"I knew you would." She kisses him. "Good luck."

The game begins. She drags something across his shoulders and chest, something light and feathery, and since those are the only two words he can think of to describe it —

"Is that a writing quill?"

"Indeed, it is!"

And, oh, _praise God,_ because she's finally, _finally_ riding him again. She's riding him slowly, and for all his undignified whining, this slow burn she's so artfully stoking in him is immensely pleasurable. When it eventually catches fire, ignites — _well._ He's not sure he's going to survive it, quite honestly.

She continues grinding against him as she passes the next mystery object over his skin. She starts at his belly and trails it up to his chest. This one is a bit harder to identify — it's soft, and he loves the way it caresses his skin (loves everything at the moment, quite frankly, _love love loves_ her), but it feels as though it might have a somewhat waxy texture to it.

"Well?"

"It's, ah…"

"Time's up!" she crows as she stops riding him and smacks the crop against his other thigh.

He hisses. She trails the object up around his neck, lets it graze his cheek, and the scent —

"A flower!" he cries. "It's a flower!"

"Yes," she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, "but what kind of flower?"

"Oh, _bollocks."_

"Well?"

He doesn't have an answer, and it earns him another smack.

"I don't fucking know!" he shouts. "A tulip, or a — a poppy!"

"Nope!"

_Smack._

Arthur racks his brain, trying desperately to think of what it could possibly be. And just when he's about to give up and resign himself to a life of corporal punishment — albeit at the hands of a charming, beautiful, sexy Belgian woman who makes his heart beat faster whenever she enters the room — he suddenly remembers that he planted daffodils in her garden last spring.

"It's a daffodil, you minx, it bloody well _has_ to be!" he shouts. "Those are the only other sort of flowers you have around here!"

His head falls back against the headboard, and he sighs in relief, trembling from all the excitement.

"Hmm. I don't think I should give you that one."

"_I beg your pardon?!"_

"You didn't guess what kind of flower it was based on touch. You were sneaky, sir, and used logic."

And Arthur almost wants to cry, he's so hard and so needy and so desperate for her to move, to touch, to kiss. It's the worst kind of torture to be inside of her, yet not able to do anything about it or have the power to convince _her_ to do something about it.

"Marie, please — no more of this, love, I can't bear it — _please_ — "

She flings the riding crop and the flower away then, and covers his lips with hers. She kisses him hard as she bounces on top of him, riding him in earnest. One hand reaches down to rub her clit, the other grasps her headboard. She breaks their kiss but leaves her lips hovering over his, moaning and panting wantonly into his mouth, and he does the same to her.

He struggles to thrust into her, struggles against the soft ribbons holding him back. He cannot see her face, but _oh,_ how he wants to look at his darling girl, wants to see the pleasure sweep over her lovely face, wants to see her flush from the exertion of riding him so hard, of racing so frantically toward the finish. He settles instead for imagining the way she might be biting her lip, the rapturous way she might be arching her spine and throwing her head back.

"Yes, yes, _more,"_ she demands, and he wants to laugh, because he's not giving her anything at all — she's taking everything, and he'd let her take whatever she wanted from him. _He_ should be demanding more from _her,_ he thinks.

He slows the bucking of his hips, and eventually stops moving altogether. She's so overcome with her own desire that she doesn't notice how still he is at first. Only when she realizes how loud the creaking of her bed has suddenly become does she look at him.

"What — why'd you stop?" she asks, breathless. "Is everything — are you okay?"

"I'm more than alright, madam, I assure you."

"Why aren't you moving?" She glances at his arms. "Does anything hurt?"

He smiles affectionately.

"No, I only — " He chuckles. "I cannot see, but I'm noticing all sorts of things about our lovemaking I'd never stopped to consider before."

"Like what?"

His voice is low as he whispers into her hair, a throaty murmur that makes her shiver all over: "The wet little clicking noise your clit makes when you rub your fingers against it."

Groaning in embarrassment, she slumps against him and buries her blushing face in his neck.

"I hope that made you blush," he whispers in her ear, grinning. "Tell me it did."

"You're _awful,"_ she laughs, and kisses him enthusiastically.

He knows she's close when she starts panting his name in his ear, tells him _don't stop, don't stop,_ and he wants to do something for her, but can only nip at her shoulder and whisper encouragement in her ear.

"Yes, my love," he soothes, "come _hard,_ and come just for me — for no one else but _me._ I know you want to, darling…"

"Oh, God!" she cries, clutching him tightly. "Arthur, _Arthur _— no, nobody else but you — nobody _ever_ makes me come but _you…"_

"And I can make you come _right now,_ darling, can't I? Show me I can."

"Oh — _oh, yes — !"_

She lets out a loud moan as she comes. She rocks heavily against him, and he can tell she's coming hard.

"Yes, darling," he breathes as she whimpers and writhes against him, "feel my cock inside of you and come around it. _Yes,_ my love, _yes."_

She eventually stops moving, and he can feel her trembling as she clings to him, can feel her heart racing against him.

He kisses her hair and nuzzles her cheek. "I love you _so_ very much, my darling, darling girl."

"Oh, I know," she quietly, weakly says. "I love you, too."

She leans back and starts grinding against him.

"I love you so much, in fact," she whispers, "that I want _you_ to come for _me."_

She licks down his chest and laps at his nipple with the flat of her tongue.

"Can you do that, dear? Can you come for me?"

He groans and throws his head against the headboard, arches his back.

"Do you _want_ to come for me?" she whispers, and kisses at his eyes, hidden behind the ribbon.

"_Yes…"_

"How much?"

"_Shit — fuck — "_

Finally, _finally,_ he comes, and with a strangled cry. As he rides his orgasm out he forgets to breathe, can only focus on the intense, exquisite relief of it all, the warmth and pleasure and _joy_ his connection to her (physically, and otherwise) brings him. When he's finished and completely spent, he's gulping for air.

Marie slides off him and, rummaging through her things, begins cleaning them up with a soft rag. When she's done, she unties his arms.

As soon as he's free of the ribbons, he gropes for her and she yelps as he pins her beneath him on the bed. He kisses her languorously, the way he thinks she was always meant to be kissed, and they sigh and melt against each other, fall a little more in love with each other.

She brings her hands up to untie the ribbon around his eyes. He blinks rapidly when she pulls it away, his eyes not yet accustomed to the sunlight filing the room.

Sitting back on his knees, he stares down at her, takes in her disheveled hair, her kiss-swollen lips, her deliciously improper outfit…

_Those knickers have a hole in them, just like the ones the dancers at the Moulin Rouge wear, _he suddenly thinks — and then fancies himself an immense idiot.

* * *

They try to fulfill each other's desires as often as they can.

Example: Arthur especially likes the way certain things feel against his skin.

Example: Marie especially likes to see Arthur in his gloves and sleeve garters.

He asks her what she wants for her birthday one day, and her first thought was a memory from years and years ago:

She walked in on Arthur one afternoon as he worked in his study, hoping to surprise him with her unexpected visit. He looked absolutely wretched — hunched over his desk and a hand fisting in his hair. He was wearing his sleeve garters to ensure his shirt cuffs wouldn't be stained with ink.

"My poor Atlas," she had said, coming up to him. "You look like you've got the weight of the entire world on your shoulders."

"Not the weight of the world," he tiredly answered, "just the weight of an empire."

"Almost the same thing these days, aren't they?"

He'd been working all day, he said, and was ever so glad to see her. When she suggested they get out of there, go for a walk in the park, maybe get some sweets from the sweet shop, he'd readily agreed and dropped everything to accompany her. But the poor dear had been working so hard and for so long his brain was addled. He forgot to remove his sleeve garters, and slipped on his gloves before first pulling on his jacket.

She wanted to tell him, as she watched him laugh and shake his head, pull off his garters and his gloves, that she didn't mind. That the sweet shop could burn for all she cared — could they just stay inside, and could he please put his gloves and garters back on, and could she please just sit and admire him?

She hadn't had the nerve to really ask him that at the time.

But it's her birthday _now,_ and Christmas is too far off to wait.

"Would you wear your best shirt and waistcoat, with your best neck cloth, your best stickpin, and your best gloves…and also put on your sleeve garters for me?"

"What are you going to wear?" he asked, thinking she might finally be warming to the opera.

"I'm not going to wear anything, dear."

He ruined a perfectly good pair of gloves that night, but it was worth it to see her so completely enraptured by his touch, so completely under his spell — she nearly pulled every hair from his head as he licked her clit and fucked her with his gloved fingers.

Ah, well. His gloves aren't anything he can't replace with a quick trip to Milsom & Milsom's.

(There's a reason he's their best customer.)

* * *

Once, after a month of being apart, he arrived on her doorstep with every intention of stripping her the very moment the front door was shut and showing her exactly how much he'd missed her.

They got as far as her sofa, fully clothed, and ended up only kissing the night away.

* * *

Once, after reading some dreadful novel, Arthur had a great desire to utter the _filthiest_ things to her. He imagined her squirming beneath him, completely overtaken with lust at the sound of his voice wrapping around those words and barely able to control her carnal desire for him.

The words, when he actually used them, had the opposite of their desired effect, however. Instead of making her _desperate_ and _weeping_ for his cock, they'd only amused her, and she got a great laugh out of them.

He was dreadfully embarrassed, burying his red face into the pillow as she cackled with delight. But he quickly forgot his embarrassment as she gently coaxed him into what turned out to be some of the most sensual, romantic lovemaking they'd ever given each other — and all of it without a single word spoken between them.

Later, after he pulled her to him and breathed in deep the vanilla and honey scent of her skin, she began laughing again.

"That is _never_ to be spoken of, _ever again."_

"But — "

"It is never to be brought up again, and that is _final."_

After getting a few final giggles out of her system, she assented.

"I'm still mortified," he admitted, the poor dear, "but I'm glad you showed me how you _really_ felt about it early on."

Then, lifting his head to look at her: "Do you remember that one time — the first time with the ribbons — when you mentioned you might be afraid to tell me you didn't like something?"

"Maybe," she mumbles, frowning and looking away.

He lifts her chin, but she doesn't meet his eyes.

"Look at me," he gently commands, and when she finally does, he softly kisses her. "Darling, _don't._ You've never been afraid of anything in your life, so don't disappoint me by starting now."

He rolls her onto her stomach and trails lazy kisses up and down her back.

"Do you remember what you once told me, my love?" he murmurs, holding her hand and lacing their fingers together. "It's only you and me — it's only _us."_

* * *

Arthur and Marie rarely, if ever, fight, but one day a joke about her brother goes too far, and in retaliation, she says some very unkind things about _his_ brothers.

They end up not speaking to each other for three weeks.

(His brothers may all hate him, but at most, Arthur only _dislikes_ them — not that he'll ever admit it, though. If they can ever learn to get along, this is going to turn out very Dickensian. If they can't, it'll be something straight out of Hardy's Wessex.)

* * *

There is a room in Arthur's home that belongs only to Marie. No one but her is allowed to use it.

Arthur sits in her room one day, miserable. There's a book in his hands, but he couldn't tell you the title or the author. For the past half hour he's only been staring blankly at the pages.

A slight movement at the door catches his eye. Someone — not one of the servants, as he gave them all the day off — has slipped a note under the door.

Arthur rises from his chair and picks up the note.

_Meet me in the drawing room in half an hour, dear._

His heart bucks against his ribcage as he reads it over and over, five, six, seven more times.

Waiting out the half hour is excruciating. Impatient by nature, he wants to run down and see her _now,_ kiss her, tell her he's missed her and that he's been a right cad — but really, does she have any idea the trouble she's caused by refusing to speak to him? He snapped at a poor, innocent flower girl the other day, and even _he_ knows that's low.

The hour half eventually passes, and he flies out of the room. He makes his way to the drawing room posthaste and throws open the door, fully intending to tell that damn, bewitching woman he's decided they are not to _ever_ fight again, damn it, and they're going to get along and be ridiculously sappy and love each other even if it _kills_ them —

But she's not there. He even looks to see if she's hiding under the table or behind the curtains, but there's no trace of her. (He thinks that hiding from each other in his house might not be such a bad game to play one day, though.)

Sighing and straightening his waistcoat, he notices one of the busts on the mantelpiece is turned the wrong way. He turns the bust around, and then realizes several other objects are either facing the wrong direction or are in the wrong place entirely. He sets about rearranging them, and wonders if he's losing his mind — moving objects, cryptic notes from angry lovers inside an empty house…

"Mr. Kirkland!"

He turns and sees her standing in the doorway, and immediately goes to her.

"Darling, I — "

"_What_ have you _done?"_

She rudely brushes past him and his open arms, and makes straight for the mantelpiece.

He watches, utterly baffled, as she begins putting everything back the wrong the way — the way he first found it.

"Coming into someone's house," she scolds, waving her finger at him, "and rearranging everything as though you own the place, as though _you_ were the master here!"

She walks to him, turns him around and roughly shoves him toward the door.

"You leave this house this instant, and never come back, thief! _Scoundrel!"_

He braces his hands on the doorframe and easily halts them. Marie is still pushing with all her might, still trying to force him out of the room.

"What the devil are you doing?" he shouts at her over his shoulder. "I _am_ the master of this house — _you know that!"_

"You most certainly are not!" she shouts back, trying to pry his fingers off the doorframe. "The master is away and won't be back for another month. I may be new here, sir, but I am not stupid."

Grabbing her wrists, Arthur drags her back into the room.

"Marie, what is going on? Why — " He picks up the edge of her black dress. "Why on earth are you wearing a maid's outfit?"

"Because I _am_ a maid," she answers, yanking her dress out of his hand.

Arthur stares at her as she smooths out her white apron and readjusts the jaunty white cap on her head. His shoulders droop in defeat.

"Darling, I don't understand," he says, distraught. "I wanted so badly to see you, and now you're here, but — "

She startles him by leaping into his arms, throwing her arms around his neck.

"This is all just pretend, Arthur, dear," she whispers.

"Oh, thank God!" he cries in relief, and hugs her tightly.

"I'm so sorry for what I said about your brothers."

Some moments pass and turn into an awkward silence.

"Arthur, I'm waiting."

"_Fine,"_ he huffs. "I'm sorry for what I said about yours."

She sighs. "I missed you."

"And I missed you, darling."

And so they simply hold each other, until Arthur tries to pull away.

"Darling, why are you dressed — "

"No, stay here!" she loudly whispers, gripping him to her. "Just listen. It's a game — something I thought you might like, but if not, just let me know. When I pull away, I won't be Marie — I'll be the maid again, and I'll think you're a burglar. Just play along with me, alright?"

"Oh." He blinks. "Righto, then."

She kisses his jaw. "I promise I'll make it worth your while."

Then she roughly pushes him away and looks down her nose at him.

"_Why_ are you still here?" she angrily shouts. "How many times do I have to tell you to _get out?"_

He thinks about what she said about playing along.

"I — damn it, woman, I _live _here! This is _my house._ Why must you persist in refusing to believe me?"

She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Because you _can't_ be the master, that's why."

"And why ever not?"

"Because the master is away on business," she says, as though he was the stupidest person in all of creation. "He's not scheduled to be back for another month yet."

She raises her eyebrows at him, and his eyes light up as he suddenly remembers something.

"You said you were new here?"

"Yes — just hired on last week. Not that it's any business of _yours,_ thief."

"Then you've never actually seen your master?"

"No, but I've heard stories about him."

"Such as?"

Her expression softens, and she reaches out her hand to gently brush the hair from his eyes.

"I've heard that he's handsome and kind, despite his temper," she tenderly says, "and that he absolutely spoils his wife."

She haughtily turns and walks away. "Not that any of those words could ever be used to describe _you."_

He walks to her and grabs her arm, roughly turns her around to face him.

"I _am_ your master, you shrew," he seethes, "you've just never seen me because I was away when you were hired. I finished my business early and returned home before scheduled."

"Prove it."

He lets go of her arm and points toward the bookshelf.

"Do you see that book up there? The one with the blue binding? It's a book of Shakespeare's sonnets. Do you even know who Shakespeare _is,_ you uncultured shrew?"

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at him.

"On page 105 is Sonnet 116 — there's a rose marking the spot. My wife and I were on a picnic one day when she plucked the rose and pinned it to my doublet. I kept it, and it's been marking that sonnet in that book ever since, because every time I read it, it never fails to make me think of her."

Marie grabs the book and flips through it, and sure enough, there's a rose marking Sonnet 116.

She turns away from him, and takes a few moments to gather her wits about her. She remembers that day very clearly, and she wants to cry and shout and dance from happiness, but also doesn't want to ruin their game. (She hopes he's having as much fun as she's having.)

"Be careful, shrew — that rose is nearly 250 years old."

Marie closes the book and holds it to her chest. "Your wife is a very lucky lady."

"She's everything I don't deserve," Arthur whispers.

He clears his throat.

"But as for _you," _he starts again, his voice menacing, "I suggest you start begging if you don't wish to lose your job."

Marie gasps and turns around.

"But, sir!" she says, placing the book back on the shelf, and then coming up to him with wide, beseeching eyes. "You can't do that!"

He snorts. "The hell I can't."

"I've a family, and they're all depending on me! They won't eat without me."

"_Beg."_

"No!"

Arthur grabs her arm and starts dragging her out of the room.

"If you won't beg, you saucy wench, then — then you'll be _punished."_

"No!" she shouts again, and digs her heels into the carpet.

Arthur tugs and pulls, holds her arms behind her back and drags her out of the room, but he doesn't make it very far as Marie's putting up a real fight. She's going to make him earn it, and as much fun as he's having now, he already knows it's going to be _glorious_ when he finally gets her into his bed.

She breaks out of his hold and takes off running. He catches up to her in the hallway, and when he grabs her, they both tumble to the ground. Her cap falls from her head, and her disheveled hair falls in her face. She gathers herself up and is going to make another run for it, but Arthur is quicker, grabbing her around her waist and pulling her to him.

"Come along, shrew," he grunts, hoisting her up over his shoulder and carrying her up the stairs. "I don't know what makes you think you can get away with talking to your master in such a fashion."

"I'll talk to you any damn way I please!" she shouts, pounding at his back and kicking her legs.

"I say, have a care where you're putting your limbs, you foolish servant! Do you wish to send both of us tumbling down the stairs?"

"I do if it means it'll break your neck, you mongrel!"

He brings a hand up to nonchalantly pat her rear, and she makes an indignant, scandalized noise. She curses a blue streak at him, and even _he,_ a former pirate, is impressed.

(He knows he's supposed to be the incensed, iron-willed master, but he can't help smiling just the tiniest bit.)

When he finally makes it inside his bedroom, he dumps her rather ungraciously onto his bed. Even though they are the only two people in the house, he goes to the door and locks it.

And then he decides to make her wait. He removes his waistcoat, hangs it in his armoire, and divests himself of his neckerchief, folding it and placing in it in one of his drawers. His shoes and socks ought to go as well, while he's at it, and he slides them off.

He knows she's watching him, so he picks up the thin rattan cane resting against his armoire. He twirls it in his hands, makes a show of inspecting it even though he already knows it's perfect for what it's about to be used for. Humming lightly to himself, he swings it a few times to test it, and the cane makes a smart _thwack_ sound as it cuts the air.

Oh, yes. Glorious, indeed.

He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt as he makes his way over to her.

Resting the tip of his cane under her chin, he forces her to look up at him.

"If you will not beg, and if you refuse punishment, then you must be _broken."_

He grabs a fistful of her hair and forces her head back — not too roughly, though, as she discovered, much to her disappointment, that she didn't particularly like hair pulling, after all — and forces his lips upon hers. It's a hard, messy, searing kiss, and he kisses her as though he wants to leave some sort of mark on her — some little remnant of him to let everyone from here to Calcutta know: _Mine._

She plants her hands on his chest and roughly shoves him away.

He stumbles backward a bit and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I admire the fight in you," he says, smirking.

"You're a brute."

"And you're an ungrateful wench who needs to learn her place."

"_I hate you."_

"Oh, you only _think_ you hate me now, love, but depend upon it — I've only just begun with you."

He pushes her back against the bed and lies on top of her, gently stroking her cheek with the edge of the cane.

"No," he says, gazing thoughtfully at her, "I've not done with you just yet. Not by _any_ stretch of the imagination."

He's kissing her again, as hard as before, but this time she's kissing him back. It's needy, it's hungry, and they haven't even truly begun yet but they're both already moaning and writhing against each other.

And it would be so easy for them to strip and just fuck each other like animals, but _this_ — this could be exhilarating beyond belief.

He flips her over and lays the cane beside her. She turns her head away from it, but he grabs her hair again and turns her head back.

"No," he commands. "You _look_ at it, wench, and _know_ that it's there. Before long, it's going to be _here."_ He cups her ass with his hand and squeezes.

He begins unfastening the buttons on the back of her dress, but _really,_ there are far too many of them, and the little blighters are too small by half, and it's all just for pretend, anyway — so he rips her dress apart until a large section of her smooth back is exposed to him.

"No corset?" he murmurs, bowing his head to lay hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin. He slathers kisses all the way down to the small of her back, and then drags his lips back up her spine to her neck, his breath hot against her skin.

He licks and sucks slowly all across her neck, one hand snaking into her ruined dress to cup her breast, the other holding her chin and tilting her head back.

She arches her back and twists around to kiss him, sighing out his name.

"What was that?" he asks, rising to his knees and pulling her up flush against him, still kissing at her neck, still holding her chin, still palming her breast.

"_Arthur,"_ she breathes, and lays one of her hands over his on her breast, the fabric separating their fingers. The other finds its way behind her to weave into his hair.

"That's not my name." Still kissing at her neck, he releases her breast and picks up his cane. "Not to you, it isn't."

He lets go of her chin and holds the cane across her belly with both hands, trapping her against him. They've started rocking against each other, his dick half-hard in his trousers.

He presses the cane against her.

"How are you to address me, maid?" he breathes against her ear.

She turns her head and meets his eye, a devilish grin on her face.

"_Arthur."_

He shoves her down onto the bed, her ass in the air. Setting his cane down, he lays his hands upon her ass, grabs and squeezes as he continues rocking against her.

Suddenly remembering that she didn't put on a corset, he wonders what else she didn't put on, and flings her skirt up.

No petticoat, no stockings, no garters, no underwear.

_God, she really is perfect,_ he thinks, smiling wickedly.

"I'll allow you one more opportunity to correct your mistake," he says, his voice dangerously low for a gentleman.

He picks his cane back up and changes positions, coming to sit on his knees beside her. He lays the cane against her ass, and runs it back and forth along her skin as though he were playing a violin.

"This is your _last chance,"_ he says, and stops the cane so she understands, "to address me correctly, or to utter any final words — perhaps _one_ word in particular."

The room is astonishingly quiet, then, as Arthur breathlessly waits for her answer.

She turns her head to look at him — and the saucy wench has the audacity to wink.

"You can go to hell, _Arthur."_

The cane comes down against her ass, and she yelps and flinches.

"_That_ is for refusing to follow orders."

He grabs her hands and holds them behind her back, giving her enough time to feel the strike settle into her bones, and then brings the cane down again.

"_That_ is for calling me a thief — "

_Thwack._

" — a scoundrel — "

_Thwack._

" — a mongrel — "

_Thwack._

" — and a brute."

Quiet until then, a strangled cry finally escapes her lips. Her ass is quivering, and she inches away from him, trying to find some kind of relief.

Arthur releases her hands and leans down to kiss the shell of her ear.

"Shh," he soothes, brushing her hair from her face, "shh, shh…it's alright, love, I promise."

He rubs circles on her back to comfort her and watches her face for a few moments — _please don't say strawberry,_ _I love you, I love this, say strawberry if you need to, but please don't need to _— and when she finally nods her head at him, he rises back up.

"Don't think I'd forget you also accused me of being a liar, wench."

_Thwack._

He idly traces the tip of his cane up her back, across one of her arms. "Or that you raised your voice to me in my own home."

_Thwack._

"Hmm," he hums, "such a fine arse you have. Which reminds me — coming into my home with no corset, no stockings, no knickers? What do you think this is — the streets of Paris? Soon enough you'll want to start painting your face like a French whore! It is not to be borne!"

_Thwack._

"Are there any other transgressions I need to be made aware of, shrew?"

She's writhing away from him again, and says something, but it's muffled.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry!" she shouts, throwing her head back and clawing at the sheets. "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Kirkland! Please, believe me!" Defeated, her head drops back down to the bed. "I swear I won't ever be bad or wrong or mean again — _please."_

Arthur tosses the cane aside and it lands on the floor with a clatter. He crawls up beside her and leans down to kiss her cheek, her eyelids, her nose.

"That will do quite nicely, my love," he gently says, wiping away the tear from her cheek. "I suppose that's as good an apology as any I'm going to get from you today, mmm?"

She's breathing raggedly through her mouth, and gives him a droopy, open-mouthed smile. She reaches out to clutch his hand.

"You must breathe for me, darling," he says, turning her hand over and kissing it.

"Can we finish?" she whispers after a few moments, shyly looking up at him.

"My brave, brave girl." He kisses her forehead. "If you like."

"Yes, please."

He softly kisses her lips.

"Wench," he calls her around a wolfish grin.

"Thief."

Rising up, he positions himself before her ass, and looks at the perfect red marks he put there — neither too high nor too low, as they've practiced this scores of times before, and thankfully not a single stroke broke her lovely skin. Pushing her skirt further away, he leans down and gently lays kisses over her scorching skin, across all his marks.

"Shrew."

She sighs and relaxes into the bed.

"Scoundrel," she sighs, almost dreamily.

He lays kisses all across her ass and her thighs before leaning back to unbuckle his trousers. He fumbles his way out of them, slips his shirt off, and positions the head of his cock against her wet entrance.

"Yes," he murmurs, running his hands along her back — so pink and creamy, in stark contrast to the attractive red of her ass. "So, so lovely. You cannot possibly know how lucky you make me feel sometimes — _all_ the time."

They both moan as he enters her, and he throws his head back and sighs.

"You are such a good girl," he whispers, his eyes squeezed shut, "such a very, very good girl — an _excellent_ girl."

She whimpers beneath him when he begins thrusting into her. His thrusts are slow and shallow at first, almost unbelievably gentle.

"Come here," he murmurs, "come closer." Grabbing her by the hips, he gently lifts her ass up and pulls her toward him, grunting and biting his lip when she supports herself on her hands and they perfect the angle. He quickens his pace and deepens each thrust, and her whimpers turn into needy whines.

"Haven't had enough, pet?" he inquires with a smirk. "Is there something else you want besides my cock in you?"

He leans down and fumbles with her skirt, bats it out of the way as his fingers find their way to her clit. He presses against it, but his fingers remain still.

"Oh, _yes,_ Ar — Mr. Kirkland, _yes."_

He hasn't moved his fingers yet, so she starts to rock against them.

"Please…"

"Do you want it?"

"Yes…"

"Do you need it?"

"_Yes!"_

"Which is it, then, maid? _Want_ or _need?"_

"Oh, God, it's both — it's _both! _Please, Mr. Kirkland, I want you to finger me, please, I need it!"

He starts rubbing against her clit then, finds the sweet spot, and she's moaning again, starts meeting him thrust for thrust.

The only sounds in the room are his cock sliding in and out and in and out of her, her wetness sucking him back into her each moment he pulls away, and her ass slapping against him in a perfect rhythm all their own — just like so many other times, and not. Arthur watches the skin of her ass shake as it makes contact with his, and his grip on her hips tightens, hard enough to leave the bruises they'll find there tomorrow.

He stops fingering her, but continues ramming his cock into her.

"Who do you work for?" he barks.

"You…"

"Who do you cook and clean and do the wash for?"

"You…"

"To whom do you answer, maid?"

"You!"

He bends down to suck on her back, and starts fingering her again.

"Tell me I own you, maid," he hoarsely demands, dragging his teeth against her skin.

"You own me!"

"Tell me you're _mine."_

"I'm yours," she shrieks, _"oh, God,_ I'm yours!"

He straightens a bit, and it's straining his arm, but his fingers rub over her clit furiously, over and over and over, and she can feel her orgasm start to wash over her — she's close, so close, and she's almost there —

"I'm going to make you come," he harshly whispers, _"I_ am — you're not to come otherwise, do you understand? Not unless _I make you."_

That's when her orgasm starts, and it's grabbing hold of her just as Arthur leans down, wraps his other arm around her waist, and lays his cheek against her back.

"Tell me who loves you, Marie," he tenderly whispers, "tell me, tell me, tell me…"

"_You do,"_ she manages to pant out, but just barely, as the waves of pleasure overtake her from the inside out and all she can do is thrash her head up and down and surrender to it, surrender to all the bliss, all the electricity — surrender to _him_ as he makes her come and gives her more and more of everything she's ever wanted.

"_You_ love me," she whispers, her arms collapsing beneath her. She falls against the bed and buries her face in the sheets. _"You _love me, _you_ love me…"

Arthur holds her ass with both hands then, biting his lip as he roughly rams into her to find his own release.

Completely spent, supremely happy, she grunts lightly each time he thrusts into her, and it only adds to the jumble of thoughts in his brain: The hot, slick, _welcoming_ feel of her around his dick, the red skin of her ass, the folds of flesh around her clit, she's _his,_ only _his,_ he _owns_ her, takes her, makes her, breaks her, he's a thief and a scoundrel and she hates him and he loves her and she loves him and she only came because _he_ _made her_ and he's going to come and come and come and fill her —

He shamelessly moans as he comes, jerking wildly into her. It lasts only for a too brief moment, but he rides it out and enjoys it as long as he can, enjoys the sensation as it washes over his body, as it makes every part of him feel alive and completely _hers._ He pulls her to him one final time and hopes against hope he never has to relinquish her, even as he pulls out of her.

He collapses beside her on the bed, completely useless and hopelessly in love.

"My _God,_ woman," he pants, and then swallows, dryly. "Holy hell — holy fucking hell..."

She twists a little and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his neck and throwing a leg over him.

"Oh, Arthur," she sighs, "Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur…_my Arthur…"

They stay like that for some moments, blissfully unaware of anything that isn't each other before he eventually regains use of his limbs and tries to move.

"No," she mumbles, "stay here."

He strokes her hair. "Darling, I need to get you a cool compress."

"I know, but — don't leave me."

But he's already started to worry, and slides out of her arms and off the bed. He fills his washbasin with water from the pitcher and wets the hand towel on the tray. Coming back to her, he carefully lays the towel across her backside, and she jumps slightly at first, but eventually sighs, enjoying the feel of the coolness against her tingling skin.

Arthur rewets the towel as often as it needs, softly murmuring _my love_ and _my darling girl_ and _I love you_ and _it's true what I said, I don't deserve you_ in her ear while he takes care of her. There's a cup next to the washbasin on the table; he pours water into it and makes her drink. He manages to get her out of her dress, and lays chaste, innocent kisses up her back and ends by nuzzling her neck. It makes her giggle, and the sound of it makes him smile.

He wets the rag one final time, cleans his mess off her, and then lies next to her. He kisses the back of her hand and holds it against his chest, right over his heart.

"I missed you," he says.

She smiles warmly. "I missed you, too."

"I mean — well, that is to say — not so much as to be completely lost and useless without you, of course."

"Of course," she agrees, remembering the way he held his arms out for her when she first appeared in the drawing room.

"And I had plenty of things to keep me occupied, so it wasn't as if I was hopelessly pining away for you the entire time."

"Not at all," she acknowledges, thinking of the flower he's kept all these years.

"Still, you should know…I feel it dreadfully when you're not with me, darling."

"No more of that," she says, shifting onto her side and kissing him. "Now — help me figure out what I'm going to tell the acting company I borrowed that poor dress from."

He laughs and reaches down to pull the covers over them.

"I've no idea, but you're a clever girl — you'll think of something."

They quietly talk and enjoy each other's company until they both drift off into a light sleep. They wake about an hour later, starving, but luckily Cook left Arthur some food to eat before she left. They bring it back to his room and eat in the bed.

At one point, Arthur furrows his brows.

"Darling?"

"Mmm?"

"What other sort of costumes does that acting company you went to have in their collection?"

* * *

He's a queer sort of fellow, that Arthur Kirkland, he is.

The flower girl had heard all _sorts_ of rumors about him before her unfortunate run-in with him. Why, he's like a celebrity around town, he is — like Wilde is or Byron was — and she felt right honored to be a part of it all. Felt like she was makin' history, it did.

His lady came with him to make sure he apologized proper-like for his ungentlemanly behavior last week. They was havin' a bit of a row, it seems, and buyin' some flowers seems like a good way to make everyone happy, don't it?

Trouble is, he can't make up his mind as to which flower he wants, that Arthur Kirkland, and he keeps fussin' about finding the perfect one. He brushes the flowers against his cheek, says _no, no, this one is too wilted, this one has too much dirt on it_…really, the flower girl's never seen a man thrown into such hysterics over a flower before.

His lady is ever so nice, though. She talks with the flower girl as they wait for him to decide on which flower to buy, makes small talk that isn't about the weather and tells silly jokes. She appears disinterested in the flowers, though, and the flower girl wonders who he's really buying them for — his lady or himself?

In the end, he says _bugger it_ and buys every flower the girl has. His lady winks at her and says she's sure they'll find somewhere to put them all.

_He can be as queer a sort of fellow as he likes,_ the flower girl thinks later that night as she eats her first hot meal in days, _'s long as he keeps buyin' my flowers._

._  
_

_The End  
_

_.  
_


End file.
